


Die, Die, My Darlin'

by Ellislash (MintSharpie)



Category: Left 4 Dead 2
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, Drabble, M/M, MCD, Mental Illness, Murder, Nellis, PTSD, Serial Killer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 12:29:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4876903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintSharpie/pseuds/Ellislash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I always wanted to be an axe murderer..."</p><p>It's the premise of Rambo: First Blood basically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Die, Die, My Darlin'

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry.

People weren’t people – how could they be? There weren’t any people left, After. It was just him. Alone against a world of monsters. They pretended, oh yes, they _acted_ like regular folks, but Ellis knew. Knew they were out to strangle him, rip him apart, eat his guts. How could it be any other way?

But he had to be careful, so very careful, because they had changed; the ways of survival had changed. He became so good at pretending to be one of them that they didn’t notice him anymore, but he knew that if he drew attention to himself, they’d kill him. So he worked in secret, purifying the country one zombie at a time, because it was necessary, even though it would take an eternity. But living the way he was, the way he _had_ to, he’d learned patience. A smoker in one town, a charger in another, some random common in a third. Always moving, never present, never suspected because he was never there. Nick had taught him well. And the only thing Ellis could feel anymore was the ache of missing him.

It was like that for years. He lived on the skills he’d learned in the ruins of the South, carrying nothing but the food he’d stolen and the tactical-style hand-axe he’d found in a pawn shop. Sometimes he’d pass a TV in a window, or glimpse a newspaper rustling on the street, and read about himself: _Another found dead… eighty-seven across four states… FBI has nothing to go on…_

He thought he was twenty-nine by then. Nevada. Vegas. Lights like they’d used so long ago to signal rescue… hah. _Rescue_. Bullshit. As if he – as if _anybody_ could be saved. This place was proof, full of maggots crawling in the rotten corpse of the city, feeding on each other. Sickening – but oh, so easy to cleanse. Infected wavered alone and quiescent in every back alley; perfume and vomit masked the stench of blood. For the first time, he stayed, picking the creatures off slowly, disguising himself so he could go unnoticed. Synthetic silk shirts and stage jewelry, shoes of false leather and watches of fool’s gold. He could walk right in to anywhere, he was one of them on the outside, and they were too stupid to smell the hunter in their midst.

That night he lurked outside a poker den. His head was warm with the bourbon that laced his veins; his breast was cold with the steel that lay waiting in his jacket. It was close to 3am according to the Faux-lodex weighing down his wrist, close to the time some plague-addled sack of shit would come stumbling from the back door. He anticipated that moment with blankness.

A surge of light and noise, quickly cut off. This one was middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper hair slicked back and old scars glistening in the dim fluorescent light of the alley. It seemed familiar.

The infected looked up from adjusting the cuffs of its suit, and its green eyes went wide in disbelief. Yes, very familiar. Extremely. The ache hit and flared up like a bombing run.

“Ellis?” Its expression, of shock and longing and relief, was a slap in the face. “Oh my god, Ellis, you’re ali-” He stopped, arms trapped behind his back and axe-blade at his throat.

“Don’t’chu dare. Don’t’chu _dare_ pretend like yer him, ya goddamn sonuvabitch.”

“What?! What the fuck are you doing? It’s me!”

“Like hell,” Ellis snarled, but the pain crept through. “Yer just a walkin’ corpse, just like the rest of ‘em, fulla the Flu an’ makin’ believe yer alive…”

“What? Ellis, the Flu’s gone. It’s me. Do I need to prove it? Your middle name’s Robert. You’ve got a scar on the back of your left thigh from the time the tailgate of Keith’s pickup broke. Rochelle and Coach once locked us both in a closet in Mississippi so we’d stop fighting, but we wound up fucking instead, and they never found out…”

“Shut up! Yer only makin’ this worse.”

“Good! Something’s wrong with you, Ellis, you’d never do this, not to anyone, and especially not to _me_ …”

“I ain’t. ‘Cause yer _not_ you.”

“Please.” Trembling. Tears? Couldn't be - the infected didn't cry. “I’ve been looking for you for six goddamn years. I just wanted to find you again, and when I finally do, it’s like this? I’ve missed you, sweetheart… I love you. You know that, don’t you? I love you.”

His knuckles went white on the handle of his axe. “No," he whispered. "Zombies can't love."

They found him on his knees in the bloody light of sunrise, silent and staring at the body sprawled beside him. The sirens were muffled; the voices were thin and spoke nonsense. Hands grabbed and pulled and dragged him away from where the last shred of himself lay dead on the pavement. He didn’t fight – he knew it was useless.

The horde had caught him.


End file.
